At present there’s no way to compile in one place a Frank Luksa best-of. To do that we’d need to wade through the archives of the Star-Telegram, then get lost in the Dallas Times Herald microfiche stored in our second-floor library. All of which I’d be more than happy to do: Frank, who died this morning at 77, was once a friend and a mentor, the man who took me aside in 1997, when I began writing sports pieces for the Observer, and told me to always be kind to the losers. Reminded Frank, “It’s not like they tried to lose.”

Frank hadn’t written for The News since March 2004, when he was at the tail end of a freelance contract that followed his storied stint as this paper’s star attraction. When he and the paper parted ways, one of his former colleagues told Eric Celeste something worth recalling today:

“He’s the last link to the city’s past in terms of sports,” says former DMN and Dallas Observer sportswriter Carlton Stowers. “He’s the last guy working at the daily papers who covered the Cowboys in the ’60s, who has that sort of institutional memory. Back when I started working here and we were competing, he told me, ‘First of all, this ain’t a war of knives.’ He knew how to put things in perspective, in life and on the page.”

I tried to keep that in mind while reading through some of Frank’s pieces in our online archives. Which is why there’s the column about Blackie Sherrod, Tex Schramm’s obituary and why the collection below begins with one about a man named Jerry Flemmons …

A near-death prophecy
Published: September 8, 2002

Old pal Jerry Flemmons passed away not long ago when his 19-year-old heart quit on him. Flemmons was 40-odd years older than the heart he’d borrowed via transplant from a teenage gymnast fatally injured in a fall.

Jerry Flemmons in a 1997 photography taken by the Associated Press' Jon Freilich

He always grimaced at the poor joke that the new ticker made him eligible to pursue 19-year-old girls.

Jerry was an iconoclast, a fancy word for someone who said what he thought, came and went as he pleased, ate basically the same food every day and thrived on being rude to fools.

He was many other things — crack poker player, mid-80s golfer, teetotaler, comfortable in his own company, and curious about faraway places with strange-sounding names.

Most of all, and far better than most, Jerry wrote. He was a travel writer for the Fort Worth newspaper and visited almost every dateline on the globe. I once asked to which country he would return if he could, and anticipated it would be an exotic site such as Tibet or a remote island in the Pacific. Typical for Jerry, he said Iceland.

Jerry wrote for the paper, magazines such as Southern Living, and for himself. He uncovered a little-known tale of a brilliant, erratic character in Waco, William Cowper Brann, a turn-of-the-century magazine publisher who mocked conventions of the era and upset the population. The fellow finally created enough animosity that a citizen shot him dead on a downtown street.

Of all the stories Jerry wrote, I remain transfixed every time I reread a copy of his account of near-death experience. It is Jerry at his best on a haunting subject that defies explanation. He told it this way:

The health of a friend of Jerry’s began to deteriorate.

He suffered a mild stroke, a moderate heart attack, another, and then in Jerry’s words, the Big One that required emergency surgery in the middle of the night. The wife of Jerry’s friend called him at dawn in a tearful voice.

“He’s OK,” she said. “He died, but they brought him back.”

Jerry visited his friend days later and was surprised to find him in high spirits. The trauma left him almost giddy.

“I died, actually died on the table,” the friend said. Maybe you don’t understand. I remember dying … I saw myself die.”

Jerry was skeptical about such phenomena, even if it was common enough to be recognized by initials: near-death experience (NDE) and out-of-body event (OBE). He mused that just once, he hoped an NDE explorer would return with soil samples or Polaroids.

Jerry was aware that all of these stories followed a familiar pattern. The subject felt he was floating above, his surroundings were glaring white, a tunnel and single source of light beckoned, and there was music and a lake. Often, faceless people appear, or people identifiable but long dead.

Jerry’s friend continued his narrative:

“Suddenly I was floating, looking down at my body. I could see the surgeons and the machines, even the dust on the light fixtures and me … dead. I knew I was dead and I knew I shouldn’t be, that I wouldn’t really die.”

Then he saw “the whitest white I have ever seen, and far away, a huge bright light, like a sun. I heard music. It was tuneless but pleasant to hear. I felt contentment for the first time in years.

“I began moving. I wasn’t walking or running, it didn’t even feel like I was floating – I was just moving. I wanted to go to that sun. The whiteness had no dimensions – everything was white everywhere – but I felt like I was in a chute, a tunnel aimed at the light.

“I heard voices ahead, getting louder. Then I was on the edge of a large lake; the water perfectly flat and calm and a deep, deep blue. Across the water I could see people, but their faces were shadowed by the sun behind them.

“Then I was in the water, moving – not swimming, but just moving toward the other shore and the people. The water felt warm and comforting. I was near shore when I realized they were all men.

“One by one their faces came into focus, and I realized I knew them, knew all of them and knew, was absolutely sure, they were dead. They looked dead, acted dead. I had no uncertainty at all. They were dead.”

Jerry’s friend paused and then added:

“It was the Texas Rangers.”

Blackie Sherrod in a November 7, 1999, photo taken by our Jim Mahoney

Unquestionably, he had way with words
Published: January 11, 2003

During bygone days at the Dallas Times Herald, I would be hunched over my typewriter, fingers poised to deliver a clever phrase, when a shadow would descend over the copy paper. Silent prayers were no defense for what was to come.

Or who had arrived at a trot from within the glassed office of the sports editor. It was Blackie Sherrod.

Sherrod had a unique way of opening the conversation. He never said, “Am I interrupting?” Or, “Do you have a minute?” He just stood there, tapping his foot impatiently, until you had to look up.

Everyone in the department knew the drill. He’d been writing another brilliant column. He’d hit a snag. He was missing a name, fact or incident.

As last resort, and rather than research the subject himself, Blackie chose to challenge his staff’s intelligence. He had a question. We should know the answer.

Blackie’s questions often concerned geography, politics, poetry, music and history. Sometimes he let one slip about sports. All inquiries were alike. They were obscure and microscopic in detail, and had gone unanswered for 100 years because no one except Blackie ever asked about them.

For instance, this one I recall being submitted to my blank face: “What’s the second highest peak in the Himalayas?” (Gee, Blackie, I dunno).

Another is mythical but had the same flavor: “Who stole third base in the fourth game of the 1973 World Series?” (Golly, Blackie, I dunno again).

Sherrod’s reaction to stupidity on such a massive scale made us feel worse. He’d exhale, offer a glance of disdain, pivot silently to display a swaying backside and, trailing steam, quick-step away. It was terrible to be unmasked as a hopelessly dumb.

I felt this way for years under Blackie’s guidance. I was grateful he kept me on despite evidence that I’d registered one decimal point above illiteracy. He had a good heart.

So I made personal vows to read more, study harder and gather facts until one glorious day, Blackie would ask a question and lo, I knew the answer! I did this for a long time until I got tired and was struck upside a fogged brain by a revelation.

All those questions Blackie asked for years and years that stumped me … why, hell, he didn’t know the answers, either. I felt better.

Anyone who worked for Blackie felt better for the experience. He had a hound dog nose for news. He had superb command and rhythm of the language. You don’t have to take my word for that. Take some of his.

“He has everything a boxer needs except speed, stamina, a punch and ability to take punishment. In other words, he owns a pair of shorts.”

On the persistence of television producers:

“You shut the doors, they come in the windows. Shut the windows, they come in the doors. The next time the Marines want Mount Suribachi, never mind the riflemen. Send a platoon of TV producers and they’ll have the flag up and four Japanese privates underneath, singing ‘Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam,’ while there’s still enough light to film.”

On a late-night automobile wreck involving Bobby Layne, who had a fondness for Scotch whiskey:

“After indulging in some heavy, late-night research with scholarly friends, Bobby was driving back to his hotel, innocently enough, when he was sideswiped by several empty cars lurking at curbside.”

Bill Millsaps, editor of the Richmond Times-Dispatch, best captured Sherrod’s style when introducing Blackie upon his induction into the National Sportswriters and Sportscasters Hall of Fame.

“John Kennedy once said Winston Churchill marshaled the English language and sent it into battle,” Millsaps said. “Blackie invited the English language up on the porch, gave it some four-alarm chili and a Dr Pepper, and sent it out to make the sports world laugh.”

Humor became Blackie’s modus to inform and entertain until his near 60-year writing career ended with retirement announced last Sunday. He chose that approach deliberately and once explained why.

“The gentle satirists seem to stand the test of time rather well,” he wrote. “Don January, the well-known miner of mature gold, once said that a golfer’s longevity on the PGA Tour is in direct proportion to the length of his back swing. It may follow that a sports columnist’s stay in the saddle is in direct proportion to his sense of humor.”

So it did for Blackie who, for all his honors, I bet still can’t identify the second highest peak in the Himalayas.

John F. Rhodes/Staff photographer

Tex Schramm at the unveiling of the Dallas Cowboys' then-new training center

Architect of a dynasty
Scorning business as usual, Tex aimed for ‘something special’
Published: July 16, 2003

Memo to heaven: Prepare for changes. Tex Schramm is on his way.

Tex was convinced there was nothing on earth he couldn’t do better than the knot-heads in charge of sports sections, television, baseball, government, NFL teams in general and the NFL commissioner’s office in particular. Why not heaven?

Schramm was rarely satisfied with status quo, excepting the flavor of J&B Scotch, for which he held an approving taste. I’m certain Tex arrived at his celestial venue with the same attitude. He could improve the place.

Maybe paint clouds royal blue and silver. Apply a Cowboys-designed star to St. Peter’s gate. With Clint and Tom already there, found another expansion franchise.

When Tex used to launch a filibuster about how nitwits were doing it wrong and he’d make it right if he were in charge, I always had the same reaction. I thought he probably could, because Schramm was an anti-status quo thinker.

Tex was forever thinking about how to do everything bigger and better with unique flair. And how to do it first-class so that when his days were done, people would say he left a mark of enduring brilliance.

Such was his announced mission when the Cowboys joined the NFL in 1960. Schramm rejected being viewed as ordinary. The ultimate curse of his restless mind was to be irrelevant, another face among the faceless multitude. He left modest ambition to the modest.

“I don’t hide the fact that I’m history-conscious,” he once said. “I want the organization to be remembered in such a way that everyone who was part of it – the players, coaches and people working in the front office – will look back and know they were part of something special, something great.”

So they were. So Tex said it would be from the first day of humble expansion birth. He envisioned what was to evolve in Dallas. It would be an NFL franchise to eventually rank with sports dynasties of the times: the New York Yankees, Boston Celtics and Montreal Canadiens.

Few could have predicted a glowing future for Texas Ernest Schramm Jr. in his youth. That in a distant year he’d be inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame as its only non-player/coach/owner member. He was then a parental frustration, schoolboy problem and medical mystery.

In brief, a child who failed multiple grades at the elementary level because a mind stuck in overdrive wouldn’t allow him to sit long enough to concentrate. They tagged him as hyperactive in that era. He’d be diagnosed today with attention deficit disorder.

Hence Tex had no patience for board games or card-playing. He read only two books in his life, The Godfather and a biography of Wyatt Earp. He absorbed lessons in college by filing the contents as they were read aloud by wife Marty.

Mention of Marty reminds that much of life lost its luster for Tex when she died in December 2002. Something vital within him went with her. He noted her absence during a last-hurrah appearance at Texas Stadium in April when the Cowboys belatedly revealed Tex’s inclusion in the Ring of Honor.

Nothing pleased Tex more than being center stage, and it was good that he knew a last stroke of public affection. He literally rose to the occasion, discarding a walking cane in stubborn rebellion against infirmity. Tex straightened his bent body as best he could and made his way to the stage to bask in forthcoming attention.

The scene energized Schramm for reasons beyond personal acclaim. It seemed the calendar had reversed, and the ’60s and ’70s returned. Scores of the old gang returned. Secretaries and trainers, players and coaches, media pals and periphery figures honored him with their presence.

Random memory intrudes with a trait about Tex that I don’t think anyone ever mentioned. That is, he was a red-white-and-blue patriot. An America-first fan when it came to any international competition. Our guy could be Joe Jerk, but if he was USA stock, Schramm rooted for him.

Another thing about Tex. He avoided firing anyone in the front office. He’d have them transferred. If it came to dismissal, he couldn’t face pulling the plug.

Schramm has been described as opinionated, irascible, hot-tempered, innovative, ribald and … that’s just a start. He also was generous, immensely likable and loyal, and he thrived on late-night verbal sparring.

All is now past tense for Tex. He died Tuesday shortly after his 83rd birthday June 2. Tex lived long. He lived well.

His legacy endures in a form that should satisfy Schramm’s lofty standards. A work of enduring brilliance forever will be attached to his name. It’s called history.

At age XXVI, the Super Bowl has matured to the point that its countdown rhythm can be forecast. A definable routine has emerged for each day of the week preceding the kickoff. The Super Bowl is designed to lock-step to annual conclusion with military precision. And with decorum borrowed from Buckingham Palace. At least that is forever the staid NFL’s uneasy but prevailing hope.

Happily, a maverick element frequently intrudes. Jim McMahon puts his best face forward in practice and moons a TV helicopter. Coach Bud Grant complains of sparrows in his team’s shower, forgetting they were there before he arrived. A hot-air balloon designed to lift itself out of Tulane Stadium crashes into the lower deck.

The odd and oddball spice Super Bowl lore otherwise devoted to humdrum recall of who won or how many times Minnesota lost. These events we remember more vividly than most of the games. Even if, on a special occasion, Vince Lombardi might wince.

Lombardi’s widow, Marie, helped perform the pre-game coin toss for Super Bowl XV. What might her husband have thought of her special recognition?

“He’d probably have said, “What the hell is a woman doing on the field?’ ‘ Marie said.

What follows is a day-by-day diary of previous Super Bowls in terms of what is supposed to happen as opposed to what actually did. Monday

Traditional arrival date for teams at the Super Bowl site. Normally a dull day. But not always.

The Los Angeles Raiders once landed in the middle of a political flap. The Tampa, Fla., City Council voted to “adopt’ the Washington Redskins as its team. Any breach of neutrality by the host site is considered bad form.

As the Raiders disembarked from their plane, a local hostess apologized for the council’s behavior.

“It doesn’t matter,’ said one Raider. “We’re not welcome anywhere.’

Political intrigue also intruded upon the Cowboys before they left for New Orleans to play Miami. President Nixon had called Dolphins coach Don Shula to suggest a play. Use Paul Warfield on a down-and-in pass against the Cowboys, Nixon told Shula.

“I’d say he picked a pretty good play,’ Cowboys coach Tom Landry said. “Miami has been hitting it all year. Heck, it was a good play when Warfield was with Cleveland.’

A telegram arrived for Landry before takeoff. The message was from former President Lyndon B. Johnson and read: “My prayers and presence will be with you in New Orleans, although I have no plans to send in any plays.’

Landry was moved by the gesture. “At least,’ he said, “we have one president on our side.’ Tuesday

Picture Day. First chance for media to interview players. However, only if they wish to speak.

Duane Thomas did as a Cowboys rookie before Super Bowl V. Asked how he felt playing in the ultimate game, Thomas replied with impeccable logic, “If it was the ultimate game, they wouldn’t be playing it next year.’

Thomas spent idle moments sitting on the Florida beach, staring out to sea. His inner thoughts?

“I was thinking about New Zealand,’ he replied. “It seems like a nice place to retire.’

Thomas played the mummy before Super Bowl VI. He sat mute for 30 minutes, sprawled across three rows of wooden bleachers. A reporter sat alongside in mutual, wooden silence.

Thomas eventually moved his lips. Newsmen stampeded to the scene. What had Thomas said?

His opponent and pre-game target was offensive tackle Joe Jacoby of the Redskins. “I plan to rip his lips off,’ Alzado warned. Reporters rushed the ominous news to Jacoby, who, to put it gently, never would be mistaken for Robert Redford.

What did he think of Alzado’s intention to rip his lips away? “I think,’ Jacoby said, “it might be an improvement.’

“Terry Bradshaw,’ Henderson proclaimed, “is so dumb he couldn’t spell “cat’ if you gave him the “c’ and the “a’.’

As for Jack Lambert, Henderson said, “I don’t care for the man. He makes more money than I do, and he don’t have no teeth.’

Reserve tight end Randy Grossman was starting in place of injured Bennie Cunningham. Henderson cackled in elaborate disdain.

“How much respect can you have for a backup tight end? I mean, he’s the guy who comes in when everyone else is dead.’

Of all people, Chuck Noll, the stiff Steelers coach, topped Henderson. Someone asked Noll for his opinion of Hollywood’s bombast.

“Empty barrels make the most noise,’ Noll said. “Give a monkey a stage, and he’ll dance.’ Thursday

Interview Day II. Every decent question has been posed. Thus it is time for the dopey variety to emerge.

To Jim Plunkett: “Jim, let’s get this straight once and for all. Is it your father who’s blind and your mother who’s dead or vice versa?’

To Doug Williams: “How long have you been a black quarterback?’

To John Elway: “If you were a tree, what tree would you be?’

No one has been able to account for why an accredited newsperson would expose himself as brain-dead. Nearest explanation is that good help is hard to find. Friday

Final news conference for coaches. Tom Flores of the Raiders here defended his decision to merely fine John Matuszak for breaking curfew. Matuszak had made the rounds — and bought a few — on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.

Uptight rival Dick Vermeil of Philadelphia sniffed at such light treatment. Had Matuszak been a member of the Eagles, Vermeil said, “he’d be on the next plane back to Philadelphia.’

Matuszak’s teammate, Gene Upshaw, rolled his eyes in disbelief.

“If Tom Flores sent home every guy on this team who misbehaved,’ Upshaw said, “he’d be the only guy on the sideline.’

Coaches devote a portion of the briefing to praise their counterparts. So it was that Bill Walsh of the 49ers touted former pupil Sam Wyche of Cincinnati: “I developed Sam right to the upper reaches of mediocrity.’ Saturday

Newspeople devote the day to a review of the week’s major headlines and best player quotes. Drew Pearson once drew top-quote honors with a description of Cowboys teammate Ed “Too Tall’ Jones.

“Ed was one of those “raw’ brothers,’ Pearson said. “He was from the back woods of Tennessee. He didn’t want any ointment, any tape. He only wore shoes because it was a league rule.’

Joe Namath also quarreled openly with the exalted New York Times before Super Bowl III. Namath already had “guaranteed’ the Jets would beat mighty Baltimore.

The Times rebuked Namath’s rash statement when its correspondent wrote: “In the opinion of many, the Baltimore Colts are the best team in the history of professional football.’

Namath brashly countered by asking, “In the opinion of many what?’

As for headlines, none was larger than what Fred “The Hammer’ Williamson created. The Kansas City cornerback described his tackling technique as “a blow struck perpendicular to the earth’s latitudes with sufficient force to break a man’s helmet.’ He promised to use it against Green Bay and without regret that he could not be held accountable for resulting damage.

Newspeople also devote the night to final mental preparation and last-second research. Houston police interrupted one session in the press room, prompting poker chips to scatter. Cool reaction by then-Chicago author Rick Talley prevailed. Shouted Talley: “No one moves until we finish the hand!’ Sunday

Game day at last. Time to settle boasts and toasts. The outcome of those from the past?

Jacoby’s lips are intact. Thomas retired halfway to New Zealand, in California. Nixon’s play for Warfield didn’t work. Namath proved the Colts weren’t the NFL’s best team ever.

Matuszak caroused until he died of a heart attack in 1990. Vermeil burned out of coaching. Henderson went straight and lives in Austin. Williamson got knocked out, although the Packers puzzled later over who did it and how.

Texas Tech rookie Donny Anderson finally received credit. Packers veterans had ragged on Anderson all season for receiving an $840,000 bonus. Based on the size of Anderson’s take, lineman Gale Gillingham reached a satisfactory conclusion to the Williamson mystery.

“Well, then,’ Gillingham said, “Andy must have hit him with his purse.’

John F. Rhodes/Staff photographer

Jerry Jones holding a mockup of Troy Aikman's year 2000 game jersey, complete with a small 'hat' patch attached that was worn in memory of recently deceased former head coach Tom Landry

Jones carries lightning rod proudly
Published: November 11, 2000

A lone figure stood vigil outside the entrance to Valley Ranch a few days ago, unmindful of a chilly north wind whipping his backside. People have gathered there for years in breathless hope that a departing hero would stop long enough to sign an autograph or have his picture taken. This fan had a different purpose in mind.

He held a hand-lettered, cardboard sign that implored:

“Jerry, I’ll take half the money to miss tackles.”

So goes unanimous dissent from the man on the street to strangers at the front gate. Whatever has gone wrong with the 3-6 Cowboys, blame socks-and-jocks Jerry Jones.

Some will be surprised to learn that Jones feels wounded by criticism. Others will be pleased to learn how much when he elaborates on the subject later. But that is a secondary issue to the Cowboys owner who’s facing the major crisis of his 12-year stewardship.

I put it to Jones this way during an interview in his office earlier this week. Given these clues, name the team. Quarterback with concussion problems forced from the game. Best defensive lineman lost via injury. Franchise so salary cap-strapped that it cut useful veterans, reduced its roster to cucumber-green youth and in effect began to reload from ground zero.

Yes, but it’s not the Cowboys. The team in mind was the San Francisco 49ers of recent vintage. Substitute Troy Aikman and add his back trouble for Steve Young. Make it two disabled defensive tackles, Leon Lett and Chad Hennings, instead of Bryant Young and his broken leg.

Now to the last parallel between the once-great rivals. Would Jones follow the same path as the 49ers with a break-it-down, do-over approach because of salary-cap strain?

Another theory is worth throwing in the mix. That is, Jones doesn’t have to tear the team down and begin anew. The process is already underway according to natural cycles, and he is helpless to avoid a visit to where mushrooms grow. All the lords of the ’90s – Cowboys, 49ers and Green Bay – are now employed as valets.

Jones isn’t going to do anything for a while. He’s stuck in neutral, unable to plot in any direction until Aikman’s physical status settles in the off-season or, in worst-case scenario, further injury in seven remaining games beginning Sunday in Texas Stadium against Cincinnati.

“I think it’s a watershed time for us … certainly for me,” Jones said. “It’s a time that any team in the NFL that’s had excellence at quarterback for 10 or 11 years has to address. It’s been a luxury to have a player for that long who can take you to Super Bowls.

“That’s what we were counting on. I thought, and Troy thought, he would be playing for the next three or four years.”

Aikman might play that long. Then again, he might not last three or four minutes against the Bengals. Whatever the result, Jones said he’s pledged to reloading without first stripping the roster to skeleton status. One reason he thinks it can be done is his belief that the Cowboys own good young players in their offensive and defensive lines.

Another reason lies in a personality trait that has left Jones appearing in denial to the reality of crop failure like the present. Jones said it’s his nature to cling to the faint chance of a positive result until there is no hope. Thus, until the moment of absolute defeat, he’s upbeat – which he admitted isn’t natural and masks different inner emotions that require sustenance from motivational tapes played in the privacy of his car.

Jones wears the same camouflage when confronted with critics who’ve harpooned him more often than Moby Dick. As up-front and out-front as he operates, Jones is an easy all-in-one target for failure, and he knows it. So his answer is: If I’m going to catch heat anyway, I might as well make the decisions.

Jones said he reacts to criticism in a variety of ways. Sometimes he’s angered into an I’ll-show-’em fume.

“It does sting when we’re not successful. I take it personal. I can’t distance myself from it,” he said.

But it would be worse if no one jumped his case and called him a nitwit.

“I like passion,” Jones agreed. “That would make me rethink the plan if there was ambivalence.”

Censuring Jones for everything short of a boll weevil invasion is such reflex action that it has become dully repetitive. So blame him for hiring a 17-man coaching staff, for investing millions into free-agent wide receivers who can’t stay healthy, covering the loss of Deion Sanders with steady add-on cornerbacks, for fumbles and interceptions and suspect play-calling, plus lack of pass rush and turnovers, which he should have cured because 17 coaches couldn’t.

Everyone else with an ounce of responsibility at Valley Ranch hopes you blame Jones. It gets them off the hook.

Associated Press

Jimmy Johnson argues a call with an unidentified official during a game with the New York Giants on November 17, 1991 ,in East Rutherford, New Jersey

Jimmy knew days were numbered in Dallas
Published: February 24, 2001

Sunday marks the 12th anniversary of Jimmy Johnson’s hire as head coach of the Cowboys and on the 29th of March, seven years will have passed since he left Dallas in a bizarre rupture with owner Jerry Jones. Upon hearing that I had spoken with Johnson recently, a friend asked hopefully:

“Is he coming back?”

The short answer: No. A longer answer: Never.

Dallas is a nice place to visit but not to coach. The same goes for every NFL city. Johnson says he will coach no more forever for anyone, and especially on given Sundays.

Johnson came to mind upon note that he’ll come near Dallas on Tuesday night but land in Waco to be inducted with others into the Texas Sports Hall of Fame. Some think Waco is as close as he wants to get to Jones. Jimmy claims those old scars have healed.

Johnson had much more to say from his six-acre compound in Islamorada in the Florida Keys. Most lay in a retrospective of his five-year term as Cowboys head coach, a subject he’s not often re-visited since 1994.

Begin with the end. Johnson accepted $2 million to settle his contract in one of sport’s weirdest divorces. He abandoned a consecutive Super Bowl champion, thereby reducing to 499 coaches that Jones said could’ve turned the Big Double.

Jimmy got the beach condo, Jerry got to keep the kids, so to say. Jones also caught the most grief for allowing Johnson to escape. Johnson put a mellowed spin on his exit as it related to Jones.

“I really have tremendous respect for Jerry. I consider him a friend,” he said, without sounding facetious. “As much as anything, I was ready to leave. I wanted to live in South Florida.

“Jerry can’t be blamed for that. I thought he was out of line for some of the things he said and did. But he can’t be blamed for me leaving. If not that year, it would have been the next year. There was never a point where I was going to stay forever.

“Jerry did throw gas on the fire. Maybe he did it because he sensed I’d given him the idea I wasn’t staying.”

Johnson said he began to sour on coaching during his latter years with the Cowboys. That didn’t prevent him from coaching the Miami Dolphins in five subsequent seasons. But it confirmed distaste for a time-consuming, confining job that bruised a sensitive side of Jimmy that few knew existed.

“Everything was so investigative and skeptical,” he said in reference to the Miami scene. “The smallest thing was sensationalized.”

Johnson objected to peripheral duties – radio and TV shows, press conferences – even if those vehicles freely advertise the game, glamorize the coach and help him earn a $3-4 million salary.

“‘Are you going back and take some abuse and occasionally coach on Sundays?’” Johnson asked himself. He thought not.

“It’s not like I have a hole in my stomach,” he said. “I have rings [Miami national championship and Super Bowls]. But I could take defeat easier in 1989 than the five or six we lost in the last couple of years. Wins didn’t mean as much. Losses hurt more.”

Johnson maintains contact with former Cowboy aides Dave Wannstedt, Butch Davis and Norv Turner. He helped broker Davis’ deal to coach the Cleveland Browns – meantime rejecting to consult full time for the Browns. He also turned down a bid to join the Monday Night Football crew before ABC-TV hired Dennis Miller or Dan Fouts.

Johnson still tracks his former team: “I’m past the stage of having negative feelings except in a couple of areas. I feel bad for the players and people I care about because they need more talent.”

Where to get it? Johnson named a place where the Cowboys haven’t found much skill in years.

“Free agency isn’t the answer. You have to draft good players,” he replied.

Johnson counts Troy Aikman among those he cares about. He’s aware that Jones wrestles with whether to re-up with Aikman or turn him loose as a free agent. Without inside knowledge of Aikman’s physical condition, Johnson offered advice to his former passer.

“Take away the medical part, and Troy’s still a great quarterback if he’s surrounded by great players,” he said. “If he has to carry the team, he’d better retire because he’ll be banged up and then the medical part comes into play. But I don’t want Troy to listen to me. Let him do what he wants to do.”

In short, be like Jimmy. His weekdays are spent monitoring the stock market and fishing. Weekends during the football season are devoted to watching every available game on TV.

“I don’t go real hard at any of it,” he emphasized.

Gary Barnett

Bob Hayes in a 1974 game against the San Francisco 49'ers

Hayes not in Hall yet
Nomination overdue for Cowboys legend, but it doesn’t guarantee entry
Published: August 24, 2003

Since Bob Hayes became a finalist for 2004 induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, temptation exists to say something bitterly irreverent about his nomination. Such as, Bobby sure got better after he was dead. But as Mr. Nice Guy, I’ll let frustration over this overdue event pass without comment.

Hayes has been a shunned Hall of Fame candidate for more than two decades. The date of his original eligibility is 1981, five years after his last NFL season that few remember he spent with the San Francisco 49ers. His appearance as a first-time finalist has jump-started local pulse rates to triple-digit assumption that finally … at last …

It is true that Hayes has a foot in the door at Canton, miles closer than he has been allowed to approach before. But no one is inside to greet his spirit with an outstretched hand and a “Howdy, Bob. What took you so long to get here?”

Welcome as it was, the Hayes nomination is likely to tease Cowboys faithful into believing this is a done deal. It is far from a sure thing. In fact, I foresee new voting procedures as increasing odds against a Hayes induction. Reasons will follow.

Why nominate Hayes after he’s been ignored for so long? I submit three theories. The most insulting is that it took sympathy to put him on the ballot. Second, his death caused a career retrospective by an Old Timers Committee, and aware members found it worthy. Third, the presence of Bob Lilly as adviser to the five-man Old Timers board influenced its decision to endorse Hayes.

Yet multiple barriers confront Hayes because of changes made in induction rules. The process worked thusly in the past: The Old Timers committee submitted one name as a finalist among the maximum field of 15, and his candidacy was voted upon separately before the modern prospects were considered. Therefore the only choice for the selection committee was whether to approve his induction by the necessary 80 percent majority of those present. In effect, the senior choice competed in a field of one.

Not so in 2004. The five-man Old Timers board (Larry Csonka was the other adviser) was allowed to nominate two candidates and added offensive tackle Bob Brown. The procedural difference likely to impede Hayes’ chances lies here: Seniors will not be voted upon separately but assigned to the pool of all finalists. The effect puts Hayes and Brown against a field of 13 modern candidates.

Another change that might affect Hayes is a shift in the number of maximum inductees; no fewer than three instead of four and no more than six instead of seven. I foresee more negative issues.

Among them a personal guess that less than half of the selection committee saw Hayes play. Others may be predisposed to snub him for being jailed on a cocaine distribution charge even when on-field performance is supposed to be the only criterion. Finally, there is the present-day belief that modern athletes are superior to old timers when many of today’s stars are pale facsimile.

Who will make the decision on Hayes after our crack NFL man, Rick Gosselin, gives a presentation on his behalf? His fate will go before a 39-member committee. Its composition includes a representative from all 32 NFL teams and seven at-large voters. The latter category includes the Pro Football Writers Association, USA Today, The Associated Press, Sports Illustrated, Los Angeles Times, ESPN .com and The Washington Post.

I fear the worst for Hayes and hope I’m wrong. Of course, I’ve been wrong before. I thought he deserved induction years ago.

Boo birds only give hoot about results
Published: October 19, 2002

On Sunday at Texas Stadium amid the worst played game since the Gettysburg Address, it is believed that a distasteful event occurred for unjust reasons. Quarterback Quincy Carter was booed, a reaction that was considered inappropriate and, besides that, not nice.

Unlike the game itself, of little note nor long remembered except that the Cowboys were 14-13 fluke winners, the echo of disapproval has lingered. Or so goes local assumption that Carter alone was the target of vocal abuse.

Tony Gutierrez/Associated Press

Quincy Carter at Cowboys training camp on August 3, 2004. He was released shortly after this photo was taken.

Two thoughts circulate to explain why fans raised negative hoots despite Quincy’s dilemma of support no stronger than dental floss. Neither opinion accounted for how the crowd felt about what it had come to see, which surely wasn’t 56 minutes of pointless play by the Cowboys.

Valley Ranch insiders subscribe to the transference theory. They think boos were aimed at beloved owner Jerry Jones rather than the quarterback. Amidst a game going poorly against Carolina, fans blamed Jones for drafting Carter earlier than Quincy’s pedigree at Georgia dictated.

Taken further, a stigma is attached to Carter because he was the personal choice of Jones against the advice of in-house scouts and consensus of NFL evaluators. The same melody played when Jones spent his No. 1 on Greg Ellis instead of Randy Moss, a decision no longer regretted after the latter reverted to his bad-lad ways.

The second theory raises the onerous specter of racial bias. Carter was booed because he is black and, for that matter, always will be. The motive for backlash therefore had to be prejudice.

Both theories hold as much water as a birdbath. It is inconceivable that during this dreary game, nacho cheese dribbling from chins, fans made a mental connection between Jones, Carter and a draft two years ago. It’s also illogical that 63,000 collective minds suddenly grasped the same thought and booed Jones, who sat out of sight in a private box with a blanket over his head.

As for Carter rated no better than a No. 4 when Jones took him in the second round, not everyone agrees that Jerry erred. I heard former Minnesota coach Dennis Green say on TV this week that the Vikings were poised to draft Carter in the third round as a backup to Daunte Culpepper. Green sounded semi-shocked that Jones was savvy enough to share his opinion of Carter’s value.

This business of bias because of Carter’s color is so flammable that the subject percolates through hint and innuendo rather than direct address. To insist that prejudice does not exist is folly, since it does and remains immune to all pleas of tolerance.

Yet there are enough examples to support belief that a vast majority of fans embrace quarterbacks if they’re the color purple or spotted like a hyena. That is, as long as he wins. Color becomes irrelevant as illustrated by the sour reaction to QBs who are white, and always will be.

Recall that during Troy Aikman’s final, trying seasons, when the team collapsed around him, outcry rose to play Randall Cunningham. And that recently in Cleveland, Tim Couch endured the ultimate indignity. The home crowd cheered his injury and removal from the field.

Anyone who denies such gross, spiteful insult could happen here lacks benefit of long memory. If Sunday’s boos were actually directed at Carter, the volume amounted to a whisper compared to what Don Meredith heard in the Cotton Bowl during the 1960s.

Meredith was booed during pregame introductions. Booed louder when he joined the huddle. Booed with more vigor when he came to the sideline. Booed enough that I’m convinced it helped drive him from the game prematurely at 31.

An assumption endures that the Carolina crowd spent its frustration solely on Carter. Those prone to see sinister implications in even legitimate critique of Quincy are quickest to accept this conclusion. My take differed.

I thought boos were motivated by customers weary of being held hostage by a game of infinite ineptitude. The real source of their angst was a derelict performance by both teams rather than vendetta against a single player.

Who can say fans didn’t rail at a depleted offensive line for leaking seven sacks? Bruce Coslet for failed play calls? The wretched excess of 28 penalties, 23 of which were enforced? Ongoing inability of the Cowboys offense to average more than 1.66 touchdowns per game?

Sure, some boos were meant for Carter. He earned them for a fumble and careless interception before throwing the game-winning pass. Whereupon it’s worth reminding that no one mentioned his color.

In this 1954 photo, Lamar Hunt, seen at left, is described only as " Southern Methodist University varsity footballer."

SMU gives back by honoring Hunt
Published: September 23, 2000

SMU on Saturday will retire the No. 80 jersey worn by Lamar Hunt, who would have played much more football than he did if coaches had let him. Lamar instead served twin functions for the Mustangs. He sat on the bench at two positions.

The fact that Hunt spent three years on the varsity and played a total of 20 senior minutes did not mean he was a semi-skilled offensive end who never caught a pass and a defensive end held in reserve for special occasions. It only looks that way in retrospect. SMU just had an overrun of better players at those positions in the early 1950s – among them a receiver named Raymond Berry.

Hunt reviewed the apex of his college career earlier this week from his office on the 40th floor of downtown Thanksgiving Tower. It didn’t take long.

“To retire my jersey is an exercise in redundancy. I thought it was retired the whole time I wore it,” he smiled.

Hunt’s memories of all the things he never did – such as earn a varsity letter – are modest and self-effacing. Like the man himself. Of course, Hunt admitted that as a college athlete he had much to be modest about.

But in mild protest, he recalled not always being third string.

Hunt quarterbacked his Pennsylvania prep school to an undefeated season as a junior while wearing No. 37 as hero worship of Doak Walker. Later, there was that memorable freshman game in Norman between SMU and Oklahoma.

Someone sent Hunt a program from that long-ago night. It consisted of two black-and-white mimeographed pages. The starting lineups were inside. There was the stereotype picture of a cheerleader on the cover. A Coca-Cola advertisement appeared on the back.

Starting halfback for the 5-0 Mustangs: Lamar Hunt, who was slower than he looked. Starting halfback for the Sooners: Billy Vessels, future All-America and 1952 Heisman Trophy winner but a 42-28 loser to the SMU frosh.

Hunt wasn’t forever assigned to SMU’s third team despite spending most of his time there. Good-natured memory returned to a moment when Hunt believed he had made a major roster move.

“I thought I’d worked my way on to the second team. Then a pesky sophomore came along and knocked me back to third team,” he sighed.

Hunt doesn’t mind teasing himself. He’s 68 now and finds a measure of comfort in minutia from the distant past that only he would remember.

“The actual highlight of my SMU career was playing behind three senior ends in 1954 who played in the NFL the next year,” he reflected, and began calling that role. Ed Bernet, later famous as a banjo picker, went to Pittsburgh. Doyle Nix hooked on with Green Bay. Berry joined the Baltimore Colts.

Saturday’s ceremony honoring Hunt at halftime of the SMU-Tulane game underlines one of many paradoxes of the recipient. He leads off a series at four subsequent games in which the jerseys of former SMU players previously enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame will be retired. The others are Forrest Gregg, Eric Dickerson, Walker and Berry, in aggregate a collection of All-Americas, All-Pros and Heisman Trophy winners.

Yet who beat them through the doors of pro football shrine in Canton? It was the humble, two-way end who didn’t letter but founded the American Football League in 1960. Hunt was inducted in 1972, SMU teammates Berry (’73) and Gregg (’77), then Walker (’86) and Dickerson (’99) followed.

Another paradox of Hunt lain hidden for 40 years: Although he never owned a piece of the franchise, he’s responsible for the Cowboys’ presence in Dallas.

It’s ancient history worth retrieval. On July 29, 1959, Hunt announced his new league would field a team here because, well, there wasn’t a team here. The established NFL thought ever so briefly and decided this location was too valuable to forfeit. Three weeks later, George Halas and Art Rooney Sr. revealed that the NFL had planned all along to expand into Dallas and Houston.

Houston wound up an AFL site; the Cowboys so hurried into action that their 1960 roster became a collection of worn treads donated by NFL teams in a dispersal draft. There ends a story written with a peacock feather and recorded on papyrus.

Something else suggests that Hunt has been assigned a bogus persona. Hunt does things that lead people to think he squeezes two nickels hoping they’ll turn into a quarter. A multimillionaire who flies coach class, has a fondness for ice cream instead of caviar and drives a nondescript automobile defies the stereotype of a man of immense fortune.

For instance, Hunt drives a Jeep Cherokee that he says is, “three or four years old … really a good car.”

Yet, the same frugal source gave SMU $5 million to help build an on-campus stadium and all-sports complex. Another story lies behind his gift. Hunt motivated SMU leaders to amend their original plan to renovate and expand Ownby Stadium.

Approached to donate to this cause, Hunt said, why not do it right? Build anew rather than settle for a remodel. When Gerald J. Ford agreed to cover the $20 million difference between the two plans, the stadium that bears his name assumed form.

Then as the season ticket drive began, Hunt allowed his name and phone number to be included on the solicitation forms. This led some SMU fans to call Hunt, who booked their orders from his Unity Hunt office.

A thoughtful gesture accompanies Hunt’s jersey retirement ceremony. At his request, SMU researched to find every player who ever wore No. 80. Hunt wrote each a letter that said in part:

“I would prefer to think that the honor being bestowed is for all the No. 80s in SMU history, and I am writing this to you to say I will be sharing the honor with you and each of the other 80s. Maybe someday we could all get together – perhaps call ourselves the ’80′s Club.’ I would enjoy that.”

Such clubs are known to purchase a bottle of vintage wine to be opened by the final survivor of the group. Lamar may suggest that plan when the “80′s Club” meets. Last man standing gets the ice cream.

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